Ambush at Skyline Ranch

By Thomas McNulty

Pinkerton Agent Cameron Scott arrives at the crossroads town of Willow Branch Creek seeking answers to a series of train robberies. He gets more than he bargained for when he befriends the lovely Becky Drake when defending her son from one of rancher Jim Gilson's cowpunchers. To complicate matters, an old enemy has come to town, Larry Strickland, who did prison time thanks to Cam, and now wants revenge. Things go from bad to worse and culminate in both a train robbery and a blazing gunfight at Skyline Ranch that forces Cam to use his hard-earned skill as a gunslinger to save not only his life, but that of the woman he loves.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Robert Hale Fiction
• Release date: Dec 1, 2018
• ISBN: 9780719828577

Thomas McNulty

Thomas McNulty is based in Crystal lake, Illinois and is best known for his biography about Errol Flynn. He has written six Black Horse Westerns

Book preview

CHAPTER ONE

Out there where the cottonwoods blow the town of Willow Branch Creek shimmered like an oasis among the tall pines and between the rolling hills of wheat and grass. It lay there gleaming in the distance like something that had been painted on a canvas and reproduced in a magazine. There was an austere beauty to the scene, which included a railroad track that had forever taken the place of the Pony Express and stagecoach lines, gone now, all of them; but even with such industrial expansion the west was still savage, lonely, and often brutal.

At sunset the trail darkened and the sky turned purple. Cameron Scott rode his Paint over a hill and paused to watch the yellow clouds melt into the lavender horizon, the sun’s last rays cutting across a green sward of trees down near Willow Branch Creek. Tugging the reins, he spurred his horse off the skyline and cantered down a slope until he could hear the creek’s water gently tumbling over rocks. He decided it was a good place to camp.

He was at the Kansas border, but he wasn’t yet certain how far to Dodge City. The pastoral view of Willow Branch Creek and the small wooden sign that announced the city limits as five miles were enough to satisfy him. This was the town he’d been looking for. He hobbled his horse and made a fire. Camping in a grove of pines meant the smoke from his fire would dissipate as it rose into the branches. Cameron Scott was a man who had learned caution before entering a strange town. He had been in enough faraway locations to understand that patience and simple observation were assets to be nurtured.

He drank his Arbuckle’s coffee black and thick from a tin cup and chewed his strips of beef jerky. He wished he had some biscuits, but tomorrow he would be able to fill up his supplies. The forest around him was quiet save for the occasional hoot of an owl. He watched the flames of his campfire lick at the deciduous branches he had piled in a circle, and when the fire had consumed most of the wood he stared sleepily at the golden embers that crackled gently in the night.

He was nearly to his chosen destination, and while the landscape was unfamiliar to him, he would venture to find his way around as swiftly as possible.

Deep in the night he awoke to a distant sound of galloping hoofs. The sound drew closer and instinctively his right hand dropped to his holster. His thumb pushed off the leather hammer loop and he rose to a squatting position. The fire had burned out and he had eased himself back on his blanket without realizing it and fallen asleep. He wondered what time it was. Carefully he stood up, shrugging off the last vestiges of sleep. A dream of a fancy girl he once danced with in a San Antonio saloon tumbled away like a leaf in a breeze.

In the morning he awoke to a paradise of rolling hills bathed in sunlight, the soft call of birds and the whisper of tall prairie grass still fresh with dew. The town of Willow Branch Creek was an easy ride and he cantered into town anticipating the whiskey he wanted to toss down his parched throat.

Willow Branch Creek was already bustling with activity. He passed a large feed and grain warehouse, two saloons, a dress shop, a church, and a general store that advertised canned goods, coffee, flour, shirts, Stetsons, boots, ammunition and dungarees. A row of new pick-axes and shovels was lined up on the boardwalk.

As he reined his horse and dismounted, a boy, tall and slender, was thrown out of the store head first. He skidded along the boardwalk, his face twisted in pain as his elbows scraped along the rough planks. Immediately behind him, a man stepped out of the store, a quirly drifting smoke from between his lips, his unshaven face glistening with sweat. Pale blue eyes squinted out from beneath the battered Stetson that was pushed back from his shining forehead, the perspiration running in rivulets down his face.

Cameron noted the low-slung holster on his right hip and the notches in the walnut grip. He tethered his horse at the hitching post and helped the boy to his feet by hooking a hand under his arm.

‘You all right, son?’

‘I ain’t your son!’ the boy snapped. He jerked his arm free.

‘Easy boy, I’m just helpin’ you up.’

‘He don’t need help.’ The man stared at him long and hard with those pale blue eyes. They were the kind of eyes a saloon girl might fancy, except the man was plain ugly and unclean in all other regards. Cameron didn’t like those eyes. They were soulless, lacking in compassion. They were cold, like blue ice. The sneer on the man’s face told as much about him as his unkempt appearance.

‘Oh, is that right?’ Cameron said. ‘He looks shook up to me.’ Turning to the boy he said, ‘What’s goin’ on here?’

‘It’s nothing. I got let go.’

The man stepped forward and Cameron heard his spurs clanging dully. Behind him another man emerged from the saloon, an older, fat man with white hair, wearing an apron.

‘Mister, this is none of your business. You best stay out of this. We don’t take to strangers in town.’

Cameron faced the first man and leveled his gaze. ‘We haven’t been introduced. I’m Cameron Scott.’ But Cameron never raised his hand to shake, rather staring coolly back at the man, who didn’t flinch. In fact, something that might have been a grin creased the man’s mouth as he decided to play along.

‘All right then, I’m Bill Drucker.’

‘What did this boy do to cause him being roughed up?’

‘He’s got a mouth like his father, that’s what he done,’ Drucker said. ‘Not that it’s any of your business, like I said.’

Cameron was acutely aware that Drucker had sized him up just as quickly as he had Drucker, and both had correctly estimated the other man to be trouble. All that remained was to see who would still be standing; the thought was clear in Cameron’s mind and he accepted it as such, having encountered the likes of Bill Drucker many times before.

‘He works for me,’ the old shopkeeper said. ‘He should have kept his mouth shut.’

‘You stay out of this, too, Gustav,’ Drucker said.

‘You’re done working for me, Randy,’ Gustav said. ‘Get on home. You can collect what wages I owe you on Friday.’

Randy had dusted himself off, his face red as a cherry. His shirt was torn at the elbow and Cameron saw blood smeared on the torn fabric. He guessed the boy was about fifteen, give or take a year.

‘That ain’t fair!’ Randy said. ‘You know my ma needs the wages I make.’

Cameron looked at Gustav. ‘He got thrown real hard. That don’t seem fair considering Drucker here is bigger.’

Drucker moved up swiftly next to Cameron, the spurs still clanking, the quirly dropped into the dust.

‘Stay out of it.’

‘Listen,’ Cameron said, ‘I’d appreciate it if you took a step back. I’ve smelled hogs in a farmyard that remind me of you. As for the boy, I’m just making a friendly suggestion.’

Drucker’s expression gave away the move, and as he went to throw his punch Cameron’s fist smashed his nose, which sent him back a step, blood bursting from his shattered nostrils. Cameron stepped in and hit him again, this time his fist cracking loose a yellow tooth that was ejected from his mouth in a string of blood and spit. Then Cameron brought up his left fist in an uppercut that slammed the air from Drucker’s lungs, and hit a right-cross down on the side of Drucker’s head that put him on his knees.

‘Now, don’t draw your gun,’ Cameron said.

Drucker was wheezing and spitting blood, his eyes welling with tears that appeared to enrage him further as he struggled with the pain that undoubtedly racked his head. When he pushed himself to his feet with his gun drawn Cameron chopped it out of his hand and kicked him square in the chest. Drucker was flung back into the dirt caterwauling like an old maid. Cameron picked up the gun and punched out the cartridges and pocketed them.

‘I told you not to do that,’ he said. ‘I want you to understand something. This was a fair fight and we can leave it at that. But if you get any idea about coming at me again I won’t hesitate to shoot. Keep that in mind.’

Cameron tossed the gun at the man’s feet. Randy and Gustav were staring at him.

‘This looks like a pleasant little town. Can you recommend which hotel is the cleanest?’

Gustav recovered first, stammering, ‘I . . . I guess, well, the Timber Ridge Hotel gets all the railroad people.’

‘Fine.’ He looked at Randy. ‘Nice meeting you, Randy. I’ll be around a few days and if this hombre bothers you again, let me know.’

‘I can take care of myself,’ Randy said indignantly.

‘I believe you,’ Cameron said, ‘but you have a ways to go before you can handle a hog farmer like Mister Drucker down there.’

Turning his back on them he untied his horse and led it down the street toward the Timber Ridge Hotel. He was tempted to look back but his instincts told him Drucker was down for now. Handling him later was another matter entirely.

Once again lashing the reins to a hitching post, he removed his saddle-bags and Winchester and trudged into the Timber Ridge Hotel. The lobby was far more spacious than such out-of-the-way locations usually boasted. A lot of money had been put into the hotel and for a moment he hesitated. The mahogany furniture and oil paintings of pastoral scenes made him wonder if he could afford the price of a room. The sign even bragged that a barber was available for half a dollar. A warm bath would cost a dollar, which Cameron thought was too high a price. The nearby creeks and streams were free and a man